If Inner Frailty Were A Suite
by Bugsyboo1313
Summary: After a devastation that destroyed the planet, the remaining population reside in a nation of Panem, once known as North America. From POV's of a hunter brother, a genius detective's partner in crime, and a girl with an imaginary friend, they share their sides of the tale of a war that could affect the world's future. See inside for full summary and ratings. Please review.
1. In The Beginning

**If Inner Frailty Were A Suite**

_SuperHungerWhoLock_

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**Fandoms:** _Supernatural, Sherlock, Doctor Who, The Hunger Games_

**Rated: **_T+_

**WARNINGS: **_Language, Descriptive Images, Violence, Major Character Deaths_

**POV's: **_Dean Winchester, Amelia Pond, John Watson [the names in brackets below is who's speaking]_

**Summary: **_After a devastation that destroyed the planet and left only a small fraction of the population alive, the remaining human beings are forced to reside in a nation of Panem, or what was once known as North America. With no one allowed to leave the country, as it is under high security, everything else about normal life is familiar. The cities, colleges, everything remains untouched. But technology has developed and only the government knows that Panem is divided into 12 'districts'. But when supernatural beings begin to invade the country, it's up to a select bunch of remarkable people to rewrite history and bring peace back to Earth. From the views of a hunter brother, a genius detective's partner in crime, and a girl with an imaginary friend who's actually real, they share their sides of the tale of an emerging war that can affect not only their futures, but the world's as well._

**_~I do not own these fandoms. They belong to their proper owners. This story was written for entertainment purposes only. This work will be part of a trilogy, and each story is divided into three parts and chapters. Please take time to leave a short review. Feedback helps significantly. Thank you and please enjoy!~_**

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_"Some are born great, _

_some achieve greatness, _

_a__nd some have greatness thrust upon them."_

_**- William Shakespeare**_

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**Part 1:** _"Where It All Starts"_

**Chapter 1:** _In The Beginning [Dean]_

For what it's worth, the life that's drained from you when the weight of the world comes crashing upon your bones leaves no hint to what your future will sketch out to be. I suppose the 'glowing bright light' people see for later on down the road is a false assumption, because I'm the number one person who understands that it all boils down to free will. You don't just cruise on that easily. The choices we make for better or for worse define the foundation on which lay the principles we'll follow, most of which are ignored or altered. That's strong vocabulary for me, but the truth can only be explained in depth. I should know from where I am now; what I've let go, the things I've gained, the suffering and the relief, it was all because of one decision that led me to be raised as a committed individual. And it wasn't even my pick. It was my mother's. She was born into that selection, unfortunate that no matter what time period of her age, there really was no escape; it would return to haunt her till she gave in.

And now she's gone.

November 2nd, 1983. I remember it so vividly, just like a major plot twist in a movie, and as a result the scars will be etched in my skin permanently for as long as I'm alive. It's hard to spit out a memory without a visual guidance or the actual physical existence of standing there. Stories are much different to take in when you interact with the events; it's the sights, sounds, especially emotions that meddle with your insides, cranking the knot in your stomach. But to share the news in my own words now will not be the same as it was from the perspective of a four-year-old kid. In my standards, it all flew by in the blink of an eye, but if you could rewind and continue in slow motion, this is how it happened. It's where my purpose emerged; where I worked out with my clever skills before I learned who I was as a person.

We were a family of four in total. My mom Mary and my dad John had been in love for over five years. Steady isn't the right word for their relationship. It was uneasy at times, mainly after my father discovered the shocking truth behind mom's secret. But I was not mature enough to handle that information. I was more focused on the center point that they were my family.

Then there was my newborn sibling, six months in age to the day and who I'll admit, I adored. Sprouting a head full of hair, he had the same curved nose as dad, but the blue color of his eyes resembled mom's. Whereas I had hazel ones, I was like a walking younger version of John. Nothing is more exciting to hear in a child's ears than the knowledge of becoming an older brother. Family was all that mattered to me; to be united and happy with the ones I love most in the world.

Our hometown wasn't the most common of locations to settle in, but growing up in the country sure sharpened the bond between our family members. Lawrence, Kansas was the one place I could respect the quality of a so called 'normal' day. But sadly, that wasn't supposed to be the case for me.

Dad taught me to read, which I enjoyed best when we sat side by side on the porch swing on summer afternoons. He even took me out for drives in his car to the local park, where depending on my mood I'd blow bubbles and get all sticky or explore the playground. His occupation was a mechanic after serving in the Vietnam War as a marine.

And my mom. She was so beautiful. Blonde hair that just fell in perfect curls below her shoulders, bright eyes that lit up the night sky as they reflected the stars in their complexion. Her skin was a gentle pale and soft, her nails trimmed precisely to the edges of her fingers. To say it was a shame that I lost her so young is an understatement. It was devastating. But it was always better to examine the sentimental qualities about her, the ones that made her my special parent.

Even the little acts she did made her unique to the universe. She had a habit of stroking my hair while we watched a movie together as I rested my cheek on her thighs, my sock-covered feet curled under my huddled figure. Her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were always tasty as a midday meal. I recall Mary cutting off the bread crusts because I was picky when it came to chewing food, and mainly since I only proposed the soft parts were yummy. But the most memorable part of my mother was her voice. When she spoke it was like the rush of ocean waves over grained sand, welcoming to the ears. She had a talent of singing the melodies her guardians shared with her to me, sending me off to sleep with the ringing notes of _Hey Jude _by The Beatles stalled in my hearing instead of a common lullaby. That was her most beloved tune.

I entertained my little brother Sam by pretending his stuffed animals came to life, also showed him how to draw pictures with my best crayons even when he couldn't yet talk, and sometimes maybe dressed up as my favorite superhero Batman and zoomed around the house, sprinting to make him giggle while I heaved in tired breaths. Sammy's toothless smile always filled me with an inner twinge of joy, and I thought for a split second that those moments in my early years were perfect. I looked up to my parents as idols to live by; my heroes, my everything.

And I, big brother Dean, was proud to be a Winchester.

October of '83 had passed with not so much as a jolt of unusualness. Mom took me out trick or treating on Halloween, early enough that we watched the sunset that was blocked by a set of pink and purple fluffy clouds. I munched on candy and smudged chocolate on the white sheet I used for my ghost costume. Mary laughed and went up to houses with me to knock on the doors. I was never shy but eager and proud, someone who wanted to be noticed with my fresh energy.

John raised me up in his warm arms when my weak legs couldn't carry on any longer and I skipped up the steps to greet him after the event on the 31st. The sky overhead had shades of navy blue blended in the black, and silver stars sparkled to provide a dim light over our street. I listened to Sam's babbled outbursts beyond where my head was nestled in the crook of my dad's neck. And that evening the rustling wind brushed against the windows in my bedroom while my mom encouraged me never to eat more than a handful of sweets at a time. A lesson filled with words of the wise from my female guardian.

But two days later, during the launch of a new month, I didn't figure anything would change. Turns out that was the worst misconception I'd ever mistaken, but I didn't know at the time. I wouldn't learn the twisted truth, the whole back story, until my father was 100% sure I could handle the inevitable.

Sammy had already been taken up to his crib, perched in my mom's arms carefully as she ascended the staircase to the nursery at the end of the hall. I still had the opportunity to bid him sweet dreams when I went upstairs; I never missed out on an open chance to talk to him. I sat back on my heels, knees bent while I fiddled with building blocks. I constructed a small tower that mimicked the Empire State Building. Of course, I didn't know what that was at the time, since I just thought it was a work of art that was fun to knock down in the end.

The tiptoe of my mom's bare feet triggered the interruption as she came to collect me for bed. I shifted as the rustling around the living room disturbed my short play time, and Mary's white nightgown swayed as she walked. She grabbed a clump of my pajama fabric near my shoulder blade, indicating I needed to wrap up the day. The pattern of my clothes was a misty brown with a grey checkered design, a matching top with bottoms as I rose to willingly accept the delightful idea of sleep.

I lost the grip on her palm as I bounced up the steps and she elected not to follow my lead, instead taking things slowly. I could see the exhausted expression in her lean face as she lingered in my footsteps. But I stopped as she beckoned me to the nursery beyond my room, and I ran towards her to get embraced in a lift.

"Come on. Let's say goodnight to your brother." She set me down in the doorway after flicking on the switch to illuminate my little brother's chamber. A mobile for decoration hung within reaching distance of Sam's stubby arms, toys were stacked on the dresser, and my little sibling had his baby blanket wrapped around him for padding. Shelves in the corner of the room were littered with stuffed animals, and my brother was making small gurgling noises, child talk no one could comprehend. Rushing over to quickly talk to him and head off to sleep myself, I leaned forwards to reach my baby sibling. "Night Sam," I spoke, kissing him on the edge of his hairline.

My mother repeated my actions and brushed the flat tufts on his skull, her wedding ring shining in the spotlight on her son's crib. "Night love," she chimed.

"Hey Dean." A deep and steady voice entered near the exit, and I turned on the spot to find none other than my muscular male parent waiting for me.

"Daddy!" I exclaimed, running to hug his knees. But he was too fast and scooped me up first, expressing a hauling exhale as he situated me in a reasonable position.

"Hey buddy!" When I was level with his face, he lifted me up from under my armpit, his other elbow acting as a board I could sit on. "So what do you think?" he asked. "Do you think Sammy's ready to throw around a football yet?"

"No!" I fired back immediately, shaking my head violently, which made my shriek a vibration with cuts scattered through it escaping from my lips, thinking he was outright insane at the time.

"No," he agreed, chuckling a tad as if the original remark was sarcastic.

Mary passed by swiftly and placed a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Got him?" she questioned.

"Yeah, I got him." Her blonde head curled around the corner and I wrapped my arms around John's neck. He ran a hand vertically on my back, the strap of his watch making wrinkles in my pajama fabric.

"Sweet dreams, Sam," he announced to the room. I peeked back at the far end of the chamber just in time to see the little six-month-old tilt his head in our direction, as if trying to respond back with drool covering his chin, big eyes wide in curiosity.

I collapsed onto my mattress and Mary joined John to tuck me in, advising to stay warm because of the biting weather that was nippy after seven o'clock. And then I asked in a persuasive voice, "Mommy, will you sing for me?"

Mary smiled and rubbed her smooth knuckles over my chubby cheeks, dad towering beyond her hair as I witnessed. "Not tonight honey. Mama's tired and needs to rest, just like you."

"Okay." I got the message and understood, even at my age. "I love you, Mommy."

Her grin expanded at my heartwarming manners, the words sinking in as a gesture of affection. "I love you too sweetheart. Always." My mother bent her spine over and planted a kiss on my forehead, brushing the messy hair from my field of vision.

"Night daddy. See you tomorrow."

He expanded the corners of his mouth and adjusted his short-sleeved shirt, his plaid pants almost completely hidden by a bathrobe draped over his forearms. "Goodnight," he whispered. The female's last job was to double check that the nightlight in my room had been switched on. Then John guided his wife out the door as the clock dinged the half hour. The door slowly clicked shut as I rolled over and shut my eyelids, burying my nose into the duvet and hugging my teddy bear tightly to my chest. The curtain of light from outside was replaced with a shadow of darkness that crept over my carpet. My head sunk into the pillow and I let out a dramatic sigh.

She never had the freedom to be the role of my mother ever again. That was the last glimpse I got of her beautiful silhouette in person.

Another two hours was all it took. I woke to a sudden muffled scream from none other than a woman, my mother. I thought maybe I had been imagining it, but as a follow up a cry from my father echoed through the walls of our home, his volume an alarmingly loud panic that I'm sure rattled the picture frames lining the way up to the second floor. The television's static effect was able to be heard in my bedroom, which was the first visible at the top of the stairs.

"Mary!" The twitch in his tone was shaky, and then I listened again for the duplicate shout out.

"MARY!" Thumps banged off the polished ground as John ran, a reaction to his wife's yell. And then the hinges on the nursery door squeaked while the knob slammed into a piece of furniture, a collision that happened after my father had busted it open.

Anyone could have misjudged it for a false alarm. The house reeked of silence for more than a minute. I debated between sneaking out to ask questions and falling back asleep. I guess the battle was answered for me when a manly gasp reverberated farther in our home and I grimaced when my father's words filled my brother's chamber.

"NO!" A faint thud told me my dad fell in shock. "Mary!"

Sammy's upset whimpers were what possessed me to get up. Some unfamiliar screeching noise had blasted loud enough over my sibling's terrified wails, and I yanked away my bedroom entry just as my father came hobbling with his hunched back down the hall.

"Daddy!"

Sam was attempting to hide his face from a raging orange fire they'd dodged, and John looked me straight in the eyes sternly exclaimed with fright, "Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back. Now Dean, go!" His sentence ended in a cracked note, and as an order I followed his command strictly. Carrying the baby, I raced downstairs and unlocked the front gateway of our two-floored residency, my toes being tickled by grass blades as I traveled along in the front lawn. Not fifteen feet to the side of our porch, I halted and stared upwards at the sizzling window, hoping dad had managed to pull free from the roaring flames.

"It's okay, Sammy," I encouraged, but the presence of the frown smeared below my ears gave away that I was grief-stricken. The balls of my feet left the ground to meet the arms of John, strong enough to hold both of us securely. "Gotcha." We bolted just as I glanced afar to see the glass on the upper floor explode.

Dad set us down in the middle of the road, the distressed feeling overpowering for his body. Sam blankly watched the moon in the sky, his covers bent and folded to fit snugly around his figure.

And there was not much more to share. The pounding weight was thrown on us instantly, my insides being ripped to shreds at the loss of my mother. The seconds turned to moments and then swapped to minutes before the blaring sound of sirens faded through the streets. People had emerged from their homes to see what the commotion was, to get a better glimpse of the Winchester's steaming nursery, the golden color a blazing torch illuminating the neighborhood.

Fire trucks lined the curb while cops set to work on patrol, pushing others out of the way while an ambulance crew scurried to provide us with equipment. Red and blue emergency flashers flickered in repetitions, grazing my skin as I turned cold and my mind ceased to function. In the briefest instant I thought my beating heart stopped, and all of actuality blurred as I fought back natural tears.

"Let's get a stream on the right side!" someone shouted. Bodies intertwined everywhere you looked, and the mystery of the fire with no spark to ignite it spread like bacteria.

That's the thing: my mother was roasted alive, pinned on the _ceiling _of Sam's nursery. Her stomach slit open with blood dripping into the baby's crib, there was no exact description that fit how she was murdered.

Dad had us remain calm and stand away, compacted in a group while sitting on the hood of his 1967 black Chevy Impala. There wasn't much to bring up on the subject. John simply rocked Sammy in his grasp and watched me, nudged into the side of his ribs. But in spite of the tragic 'accident', there was one trait I'd gathered that day and would brush up on as I scanned through the years. I had been burdened with a responsibility. The small obligation of saving my baby brother made me realize that was my ultimate duty. From then on, it was my right to protect Sammy. I was a primary target in the confusion of clarity, the top of the list of those who would be removed from the world by the thing that finished off my mom.

In the chaos surrounding us three boys, the most unusual feature in reality was my only remaining parent. The sight I saw when I raised my gaze has never left me to this day.

I could see the fierceness in my father's eyes; the pure, wrenching, instant _hatred _that flashed in the depths of their complexity. He knew in that instant that he was not just going to become mom from then on, no. He was going to seek out who, or more so _what, _killed his wife.

And it's such an unknown source how all of that madness could generate the intuition of revenge.

That day's details would forever be stored in my brain. I remember the agony of my mother's yell, the heat from the intense fire, the smell of the smoke pouring from the second level window, the sound of cracking wooden floorboards, but most of all the piece of my soul that died as I accepted I'd never set eyes on my mother ever again.

And when I say my father planned to become Mary, I clarify that by stating he later went to take on her job. That was the regretful decision I mentioned my mother had resolved in her teenage generation. And it evidently ran in the family. Even us Winchester brothers were connected to it, regardless if we wanted it or not.

My living, the job I elected to take on, was to be thrusted into the sacrifices of becoming a hunter. The typical definition of 'hunter'involves deer, bears, and turkey, whatever floats your boat. I was addressing a different example of a hunter. Nothing in my terms is straightforward.

The monsters and demons children learn about from their bedtime stories are a much lesser representation than I know them. What are nightmares to them, I know better of what to expect.

They exist. It may be odd, tracking them down and ending their physical existence as a desired job, but it sure as hell reduces the possibility of them striking again. They lurk in unexpected places; they're the truth behind any unexplainable disaster.

So in the isolated nation of Panem, of which we once knew in the past as North America, you could thank me for destroying the terrors that ruined our world. As everyday chores, education, and development expanded around me, I was stuck in a secluded era of pursuit.

And when we'd moved on from the absence of Mary, I was never the same.

Because there was a much bigger role for me to play. And in no way, shape, or form was the tragedy of my mother a bluff. If it were claimed to be pointless, I'd call it the exact opposite. Being introduced to the world of hunting was one fraction, a single atom in the overwhelming mass of history that was destined specifically for me. While the hardest part sometimes is pushing through the dreaded, the feared, it may just determine the fate of the human future.

And as for me? If I mentioned where I was, spoilers would be at hand. Skipping ahead to now would compare to erasing what occurred during World War II. So, I feel it would be wise to give a good lead of my version of how government evolved in Panem and screwed with a distinct prophecy that was not to be messed with.

I may have been the queen on the chessboard in this fine edition of the supernatural shift of a rebellious war. But to share it in the viewpoint of present tense would be out of question to digest, and thus in retrospect I shall reveal the memories as they happened. The tale to be told will be a long and gruesome process my friend; however, not all works of fiction stride along with a pleasant concept right up their sleeve.

What slipped away, what new people I met with unimaginable personalities, the faults and corrections I, Dean Winchester saw, it's all part of this packed and endless tale. This is the story of my hunt to set things right.

And in fairness, this is the way I examined the showdown went.

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*** I apologize for the long paragraph of notes at the beginning. **

*** Please be sure to leave a review. I'll try to update regularly around my schedule. **

*** Most importantly, I hope you enjoy this as it gets further along. I hope I'm showing a personal side to these characters and giving you and entertaining plot at the same time. It will switch POV's a lot, so be sure to keep track of everyone. **


	2. The Eleventh Hour

**Chapter 2:** _The Eleventh Hour [Amy]_

When a speaker prints a tattoo of mesmerizing words in the minds of humans for future generations to come, it's no wonder they mean what they say. There's no denying why the question lingered in my mind forever now, the one that I thought I'd never hear from _him. _

"Can I have an apple?"

Go ahead, call me nuts already. I dare you. It stinks I can't judge you myself, because one sharp syllable of my thick and lovely Scottish accent could put you to shame in a fraction of a second. And even if I must reside in some nation I am only vaguely familiar with, I will still carry the origin of my family with me. Learning to speak precisely isn't easy to untangle and rewire into a complicated American accent.

Even while this is flowing on nonstop, you sitting in the present, dying to tune into what I have to offer, your mind is swarming with unanswered thoughts.

Let me explain.

First off, cause I know your confusion is all a ball of fog right now, who's _him? _He's the one who brings hope to the universe, my edition of the hero you were addicted to as a kid. Simply put, he's my imaginary friend. But now he's more than that.

Because he's real.

And that's the first thing he shot out of his mouth at me when he stumbled in my backyard, his hands fumbling with a suit tie loosely draped over his shoulders. "Can I have an apple? It's all I can think about."

I was seven years old. This guy was a loony, and I'm sure you'd agree if we were on the same page.

"I love apples. Maybe I'm having a craving. That's new. Never had cravings before." What a way to rant, just having mumbled phrases leave your mouth, like he was saying what he was thinking.

I had to blink half a dozen times to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. This mysterious man had fallen out of the sky, crashing on my home's lawn, and now he was fidgeting to raise himself out of a box.

And not just an ordinary box either.

At first sight, I thought it was empty, that it was some foreign object that just so happened to dump a nice pancake effect on my aunt's garden. Its square base was taller than me, made of a strange grayish-blue wood. Smoke billowed from the broken windows and steamed down the sides of its producer, covering up the appearance so I couldn't get a decent glimpse.

But then I spotted a glowing sign carved into the top of the tilted mystery machine, four words of which I processed served a pointless relation to whatever was lying in the grass several yards from my feet. _Police Public Call Box. _A joke I'd never fall for. A girl knew better than to be fooled by such a disguise. Not a single human being had seen a blue phone box for general use since the 1960s, of which I'd only seen pictures.

Hence I wasn't alive to tell a tale of witnessing the existence of one. That is, until now. But I wasn't fond of coming across it after the machine had wrecked my yard whereas I could have passed it by on a street sidewalk. And now some lunatic was hurling himself out of the door to this untrustworthy box.

I looked at him cross-eyed. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five age wise, his jaw distinctly square with a mass of brown hair flipped over in a prim fashion. My flaming red locks could've beaten his any day of the week, but for an adventurous girl like myself I wouldn't understand such nonsense at the age of seven.

His complexion suggested he'd gotten splashed with water, or more so drowned, since his clothes were damp and droplets dripped from all the tiny corners of his figure. The adult male finagled and hauled himself up into a sitting position on the thick edge of the box's base, staring down into the limited area inside his object of ownership.

"Wow!" he said exasperatedly, leaning forward to get a better view, "look at that!" Whatever he was examining mustn't have been fascinating since there was hardly much spare to glance down into otherwise. He couldn't fit more than his own self into his 'police box.'

"Are you okay?" I asked, assuming it was best to be polite and make sure his health was normal.

"Just had a fall," he replied. The man swung his legs over the ledge to face me, my short height causing me to feel out of place. I believe my rain boots sunk a little into the mud I stood in. Since I was frozen to the spot nonetheless, it only made sense for gravity to kick in sooner or later.

Mr. No Name continued to talk while I, Clueless, stood nine yards away for safety, to protect myself in case this guy went mad. "I fell all the way down to the library."

I resisted the urge to stick a finger in my ear and clean out the wax. I swear he was speaking in a different tongue. But I rolled along with it, even though there could be no possible room of books stuffed in his machine.

"You're soaking wet," I pointed out.

"Yeah. I was in the swimming pool."

My priorities were mixed up. "You said you were in the library," I explained with a flick of my neck, giving the man some attitude.

"So is the swimming pool." He fired things out rapidly without taking pauses. I rolled my eyes at his ludicrous stance.

"Are you a police man?" I questioned next.

His followed remark came out with a baffled cry. "Why?" The adult bent his spine over to scan me up and down, wonder in his voice. "Did you call a police man?"

I lowered my eyebrows. "Did you come about the crack in my wall?" The mention made him act alarmed as he narrowed his eyes to clarify.

"What crack in your…AH!"

The man with an unknown location source suddenly toppled down to the ground, grabbing his head as if a migraine had struck his skull. I stepped back in fright as he landed in a crouched shape. The tone of my sentence rose as I checked to see if he did indeed pass out, still unmoving and rooted in my shoes. "Are you alright Mister?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. It's okay." He sat up once more with his left arm over his chest, his face scrunched up while I knew he was in pain. "This is all perfectly normal." But the last section of his word was cut in a heave as he raised his head, gasping and going into a state of blank gazing. He struggled a bit to regain some air, and then when he peeled his mouth abroad to exhale a golden stream of light poured out with a pinch of sparkles. And from what I saw, it was not a liquid nor a gas.

It was energy. Pure, electrifying energy floating away and up into the night sky, only about the capacity of a light bulb in size. And he seemed relieved to let the visible power go, like it was a great burden and the chain holding him back had just broken. I stared regardless if it was rude at him. He was no ordinary human. I knew it from the moment I saw his crooked appearance reveal himself from his box.

"Who are you?" I asked, puzzled.

He rocked back on his bent knees, the weight of his heels digging into his backside. He held his hands aloft in front of him so I could see. They too were radiating off a golden glow, but the adult never considered it to be threatening for one second.

His information left my expression to fall and react as unnatural. "I don't know yet. I'm still cooking." The universe was still for a split moment before he went on. "Does it scare you?"

"No," I openly and honestly shared. "It just looks a bit weird."

"No no no," he corrected, because I had replied based on the wrong topic. "The crack in your wall. Does it scare you?"

I let my pupils widen before biting my lip and nodding. "Yes."

The excitement that raged inside him ignited, and he was a jumpy child in the mere flash of time. He was up and standing, balanced on his legs in front of me without hesitation, and I stumbled back a bit so he wouldn't hit me. "Well then!" he happily exclaimed, acting like a puppy in the presence of a tennis ball, "no time to lose then. I'm the Doctor. Do everything I tell you, don't ask stupid questions, and don't wander off."

And who was I to follow his orders? Some psycho shows up on my doorstep and expects me to be bossed around? Some doctor with a blue box.

And then he gave me a cheeky smile and trudged off, only to find a welcoming hug from the nearest tree to smack him in the face. I grimaced and rushed over, stepping into his field of vision. "Are you alright?" I asked again, probably for the third time that evening.

"Steering's a bit off," he commented, and it was like he had a brand new body, a mold he had to get used to. I helped him up and offered the man inside my home. He gladly accepted and followed me to the kitchen, situated in the doorway and refusing to move.

I took the opportunity to collect more knowledge on his back story. "If you're a doctor, then why does your box say 'police?'?" It was a reasonable question. Not a stupid one like he mentioned earlier. I handed him the food he demanded, the apple he was dying to eat, and he took one bite while staring me down, ignoring the fact that I wanted an answer.

One chomp into the fruit's skin and he spit it out, the apple piece flying through the air and landing roughly on the wooden floor. He coughed and thrusted the snack by my nose, making me focus. "That's disgusting. What is that?" He needed to know and I gave him a look.

"An apple," I said like it was nothing. He should have known that.

"Apple's are rubbish. I hate apples."

"You said you loved them."

"Nope." The Doctor made up his mind which was making me grumpy. He simply wanted a meal, but his stubborn personality told me the task wasn't going to have an evident escape.

So afterwards he wanted, or so lied to me that he enjoyed the taste of yogurt. That failed.

"I hate yogurt," he groaned. "It's stuff with bits in it."

"You said it was your favorite."

"New mouth, new rules," he informed. He wiped his messy lips with the back of his hand, ignoring the use of rude manners. "It's like eating after cleaning your teeth. Everything tastes…WRONG!" The Doctor gripped his forehead tightly and shook uncontrollably. I stood until the blast subsided, in which case I confronted him on his weird behavior.

"What's wrong with you?"

He gave me a frown as if I'd hurt his feelings. "What's wrong with me? Nothing. Why can't you get me any decent food? You're Scottish, well, were but are now living here. Fry something."

I provided him with a towel to dry his hair while I prepared the food. Bacon. Everybody loves bacon. He cut a portion and stuck it in his mouth, first giving me the impression that he appreciated the flavor.

But then he frantically fought to remove it from his cheeks and threw it with his fingers onto the plate on the table. My smile molded into a disappointed gesture.

"Bacon. That's bacon," he concluded, not finding how others practically praised it, "are you trying to poison me?"

The sad part was he wasn't kidding.

I tried other options. He called beans evil. "Bad, bad beans," he squirmed. Bread and butter wasn't any better. A classic side dish to supper, he picked it up and tossed it out the front entrance of my house, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

"And stay out!" he roared, slamming the door behind him.

I scanned the pantry and fridge for anything else I could get my hands on, but I knew nothing would settle in his stomach. The man paced around, pissed off to an extreme level.

"I've got some carrots," I muttered, more so asking to check if that was fine with him.

"Carrots? Are you insane?" I felt the opposite. "No! Wait, I know what I need," he violently blurted out, "I need, I need," and he kept repeating his words for a few cycles, "I need fish fingers, and custard."

And he just sat there, finally content, munching on some sticks and occasionally licking the mixture in the bowl. But from my perspective, I was being a pig myself, eating ice cream out of the container with a scooper. He set the dish down to plaster his face with a cream mustache, and I waited for him to erase it before talking.

"Funny…"

"Am I? Good. Funny's good." The Doctor curled one tip of his lips and scratched his chin. "What's your name?"

And that's where I introduce myself to you, the reader now.

"Amelia Pond."

"Oh…" he sighed, marveled, "that's a brilliant name. Amelia Pond." He had fun elongating the special sounds of my title. "Like a name in a fairy tale."

And there I was, plainly watching a fascinating man eat with me at the dining room table.

"So how do you like it here Amelia?" he asked, curious.

"Personally, I think it's rubbish. I originally had to move to England after living in Scotland for most of my life, but because of what happened to the rest of the planet I was forced to settle here. I don't like it here in Panem. It makes me feel…uncomfortable."

The emotion in his eyes faded to a sadness I'd never seen in my past, at least until that present moment. "Well, I know a thing or two about that," he claimed. "What arguments can bring upon Earth is unimaginable. And the after effects truly ruin human society."

I crumpled my brow. "You speak as if you were there."

"Trust me, I know." He changed the subject rapidly and put a grin on his face. "So what about your mum and dad then? Are they upstairs? Surely we would have woken them by now."

I got an even bigger weight of lead nailed on me. "I don't have a mum and dad. Just an aunt."

The Doctor swallowed and then shared a bit of facts on his life. "I don't even have an aunt."

"You're lucky!" I chuckled.

"I know." He smirked in return. For a while the only sound in earshot was the ticking of the clock on the wall, preparing to chime the next hour soon. "So your aunt, where's she?" the man wondered, observing that I was the only person in the building.

"She's out."

He sucked on the end of a fish finger to lick off a pile of custard before inputting his thoughts, sounding mildly appalled. "And she left you all alone?"

I tilted my head to let him know I could handle it. "I'm not scared."

"Course you're not," the Doctor noticed, watching me since we joined as a duo to eat. "You're not scared of anything." Then came his rambling opinion, "Box falls out of the sky, man falls out of a box, man eats fish custard," he paused to take a bit of one before almost yelling with his cheeks full, "and look at you. Just sitting there." I straightened my posture to show I felt proud of my abilities to talk to strangers single-handedly. I smiled.

"So you know what I think?" he nodded, bowing his head and raising his eyebrows.

"What?"

"That must be a hell of a scary crack in your wall."

I showed him immediately and he was interested in a jiffy, like someone had poked him with a thumb tack. From the depths of his buttoned-down shirt he pulled out a long, metal rod.

"Maybe the sonic screwdriver will tell us something."

"The what?" I argued.

"Never mind. You wouldn't comprehend it well." I shuffled out of the way to avoid getting run over and grumbled, crossing my stubby kid arms.

The Doctor pressed his face right up against my bedroom wall, now clearly able to examine my mess. His finger traced the outline of the crack, not just an ordinary line that was misplaced.

"It's a rupture in time and space. Two points that should never have touched. And now they're sewn together." He tapped with the rhythm of his voice, and I stood back while not completely taking in his speech.

His knuckles had suddenly sprung to connect with my shoulders, glued there so he could make something very clear. Fixing his vision on the window, the curtains pulled back to allow the moonlight to shine on my bed, he found his box lying in the grass below.

And then he looked down on me again and scrambled to race down the hall. "Give me five minutes, and I'll be right back!"

But there was no way I was leaving him. I followed as a shadow, having to skip to keep up while he was determined to mend my problem.

"What are you going to do with a box?" I asked as we rounded the corner and the blue monstrosity came into sight. "You can't do anything with it."

"But it's not just a box," he inputted, handling some wires and banging some together with haste. "It's a time machine."

"You have a time machine…" The idea was not able to slip past the gears in my mind; it couldn't be locked and stored away in there. "A real time machine?" I mocked a second time.

"Yes. It can travel anywhere in time and space, and it's mine!" he stated proudly, enthusiastic as the last cable clicked into position.

"Can I go with you?"

"Afraid not." He fiddled with some more switches and sparks erupted everywhere. "I'm a time lord. I'm from the planet Gallifrey and I've got two hearts. Ha!" he giggled. Finding some skill, he climbed up with great difficulty onto his spaceship and doubled back to add one more bit of important information. "Oh, and by the way, it's called the TARDIS." The Doctor closed the doors by the handles, and I heard something crash on the inside and knew he must have collapsed.

And then I heard a noise that I would forever long to listen for in the future where ever I was in the world. A slow, wheezing, drawn-out howl that filled the wind, accompanied by what I later learned was the squeezing of the brakes. The small lamp light above the sign in the center of the ship glowed as the blue police box began to vanish instantly, its glorious mode of transportation.

Packing a suitcase was never any speedier. With a winter hat secured to my skull, mittens protecting my white palms, and my nightgown resting over my boots, my luggage made a nice seat for me to wait in the garden for the Doctor to return. My Raggedy Doctor.

If only that man knew how painful it was to wait twelve _years _instead of a few lingering minutes. Boy did I chew him out, screamed bloody murder when he showed up on my doorstep way too late.

Unfortunately, that's just who I am. Amelia Pond. The girl who waited.

But I can't blame him for everything. Because when he came back to see me, that was when my first real adventure with the Doctor started. In this story, I transformed into one of the most respected women of history.

The age of war. The age of trust. The age of the angels.

So I guess that's all you need to be informed of before the real madness began.

And I have to say, thank you Doctor for the adventure. Now go have another one of your own.

This is the story of Amelia Pond. So why not…let's get started.


End file.
